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my sweet potato man
by Kristina WoodhillSo you have decided to quit eating
it's no longer fun, you've staged your own fork put-down
and my fresh baked apple pie came up last night
and the ice cream followed fast
unsettled at your casual teeth marks and your cheek
discarding tongue, your plate tossed clattering aside
formerly picked up and licked clean
formally you have demanded your final bill
97 times 365 evenings of the biggest bowls
of ice cream
melting into your deep, deep grand canyon
97 times 365 glasses of warm tap water, finely diced fresh garlic
on a thin knife, apple butter spread slow and thick;
sweet potato man, you are my sweet potato man;
corn on the cobs could do a dance out loud with your buttered
monster hands, lumber jack, flapjack
you axed your way through many a Paul Bunyan stack
your sawmill filleted oak and walnut and tall doug fir
and you spit out sawdust steaks like my biggest hero
sandwich and when the popcorn pan hit the heat
each kernel told your story, no hot air, no balloons
bumping into clouds of sticky cotton candy you were
my rough and tough hard working six foot hot dog
dandy of a father-in-law in the raw and here I am
chewing on the last piece of you, dabbing, grabbing
hard at that last bit of your gravy in that old, old bowl
and I'm keeping you all down, Poppie, all down
and my tooth pick will never see the light to poke a hole in
this hungry, hungry day 09/24/2010 Author's Note: He has laid down to die, a simple last request, bless his pea-pickin' heart.
Posted on 09/24/2010
Copyright © 2024 Kristina Woodhill
| Member Comments on this Poem |
| Posted by V. Blake on 09/24/10 at 09:23 PM Definitely not like anything else I've read in a long time. Though, with a title like that, it would have surprised me greatly to find otherwise. Very interesting write, Kristina. |
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